


Panic Room Redux

by Sword_Kallya



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Child Abuse, Damian Wayne-centric, Gen, abuse recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sword_Kallya/pseuds/Sword_Kallya
Summary: Grayson turned to glare at him.  “Damian,” he said, his voice quiet and very, very cold, “You are Bruce’s son.  You’re a part of this family.  But you’ve shown very clearly that you can’t be trusted as a part of this team.”Damian felt like someone had shoved him into a freezing waterfall.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne
Comments: 46
Kudos: 725





	1. Wayne Manor, 04:00-09:00

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Panic Room](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26552671) by [envysparkler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler). 



> This fic draws directly from envysparkler's "Panic Room" fic. Please read that first.
> 
> Obligatory disclaimer that I've only read two Batman comics in my life, and neither featured Damian.

Generally, Damian would be thrilled to be permitted to patrol alone. Patrol was when he could best show his value to his father, and while patrolling with Father and learning from him was currently Damian's highest priority, patrolling alone meant that he had shown his value. Enough, at least, that Damian did not require supervision by Father or one of the other Robins.

Usually.

_You’re a part of this family. But you’ve shown very clearly that you can’t be trusted as a part of this team._

Father had taken _all_ of the others to handle a Joker gas attack on the other side of the city. Damian had been specifically ordered not to engage. He wasn't even on the same comm frequency as the others, and was forbidden to change frequencies so that he could listen in.

_You can’t be trusted as a part of this team._

In the privacy of his own mind, Damian was thankful when the scream rang out. Screams meant fighting meant _not thinking._ Not thinking meant not hearing Grayson's accusing voice every time his thoughts strayed too far.

It was a simple mugging, switchblades and a cut purse strap, hardly enough to sate the burning need for _action._ But it was a fine start. Damian leapt down - 

And so did over thirty of the League of Assassins. A _trap,_ how had he not _seen-_

A familiar figure stepped out of the shadows, and Damian's breath caught in his throat. "Mother."

"Damian." Her voice was cold, as it always was when Damian had failed. "Your father informed me of his disappointment in your recent actions."

 _No._ "He also informed me that I would not be returning to Nanda Parbat."

"And you believed him? My beloved was right, you have allowed yourself to slip." No! Father had _promised!_ "Clearly you require more training. Take him."

Damian drew his sword, but there were too many, and no help would be arriving. He braced -

And fell off of the bed.

Damian had been trained to defend himself in any situation. He rolled into the crevice between bed and dresser, yanking one of his backup knives from the bedframe. The assassins would be on him any second, and maybe if he was good enough, skilled enough, to get away, perhaps then Father would allow him to return -

This was Wayne Manor. No assassins had tripped the perimeter. No unfamiliar hand had touched the books on the shelf, or the cache of knives in the air vent. Damian still waited fifteen, twenty minutes, but his mother did not appear from the shadows of the night. Nor did Grandfather, or any other member of the League. 

A dream, then. Damian's blood boiled at his own foolishness. Father was a man of his word, and he had said Damian would not be returning to the League. There was nothing for his subconscious to fear - 

_You can’t be trusted as a part of this team._

Damian gritted his teeth. He still did not understand why, exactly, Grayson and Father had reacted so harshly to a _perfectly reasonable_ training exercise, but regardless, dream-Mother was right. Damian was better than this. He should have known what would and would not be acceptable. He should have at least _known_ that engaging in the training exercise would put his position in danger. He would need to prove himself, somehow.

Damian finally stood, replacing the knife beneath the bed. He was still banned from weapons when not on patrol, and he could not afford for Father to know that he had kept even one. Not with his position on the team already in danger. It would be easiest to place this knife with the others, in case his room was searched, but-

Mother, voice cold and fierce. _Take him._

Todd, eyes burning as green as Grandfather's ever had. _I'll plunge a knife into your eyes and listen to you scream._

Drake, casual, annoyed, like Damian was a piece of code that refused to work as he should. _I'm not going to stop Jason from murdering you._

-relinquishing the knife was not an option.

Damian checked the time. Four-thirty in the morning, meaning Pennyworth would not wake for another half hour, and the rest of the house would not join him for another two hours, minimum. Excellent.

Damian headed for the training mats.

* * *

One hour for the League's conditioning set. Damian had been using that particular exercise series almost since he could walk, and the familiar motions settled his nerves. 

One hour for the set Father had taught him. This one required more attention, as the motions were not engraved into Damian's bones the way the League's training had been. And because it was _Father's_ conditioning set, and Damian could not afford to be seen failing at anything Father had taught him. Not ever, but _especially_ not now.

Pennyworth came through halfway through the second set, but said nothing. While he would doubtless report on Damian's behavior to Father, he had not seen Damian going through the other set. Damian was well aware that none of the rest of the household was comfortable with him continuing any part of the League's training. He might be reprimanded, if he were caught at it. Better not to be. He may have to stick to less-used sections of the Manor from now on.

Eventually he was finished. Shower. Dress for the day. Change the hiding place for his sketches. Damian could begin to sketch again once he was no longer in disgrace.

Breakfast was... a trial.

Pennyworth had clearly informed the household of Damian's unexpected behavior and while Todd, as expected, was using the opportunity to antagonize him, Drake had reacted with concern. He insisted upon using Grayson's ridiculous nickname, but Damian bit back the vicious comments he wanted to make. Timothy currently enjoyed Father's favor; Damian did not. Absent the methods Damian was familiar with for advancing one's position, which Father had made it clear he did not approve of, Damian was unsure how to handle... peers. So he dodged Timothy's increasingly pointed questions, ignored Todd's barbs, and was thankful for Cain's silence. And Grayson...

_You can't be trusted as a part of this team._

Damian answered Grayson's questions and otherwise did not speak to him. When he was not being questioned on his health, Damian was trying desperately to remember every order and reprimand he had ever been given since coming to live with his father. Perhaps, if Damian could prove to them that he could follow orders, they would decide that he could be trusted.

If that wasn't enough...

Damian quashed the thought. If being skilled and obedient was not sufficient to return him to Father's good graces, well, Damian had been trained to be resourceful. He would find something else to prove himself. There _had_ to be a way.

But Todd had stopped tossing veiled insults. Grayson and Timothy were sharing concerned glances, in a way that meant they were likely coordinating their questions. Even Cain was shooting him worried glances.

Damian thought back over his responses. He had performed standard American manners as much as he knew them, but his understanding was admittedly flawed. Perhaps he had overstepped somehow? _Please_ let the problem be simple ignorance of manners, and not something much worse.

"Damian." He suppressed a flinch. Father was speaking carefully, as he did to the victims of those they fought on patrol. While this was better than anger, it still meant that Damian was being burdensome. If he was to be trusted again, he _could not afford_ to be burdensome. "Are you feeling all right?"

 _Burden,_ whispered a voice that sounded like Grandfather. "My injuries are healing well, and should be entirely gone before the end of Dr. Thompkins' projected timeframe."

Father's eyes narrowed. "Are you in pain?"

_Burden, useless, worthless-_

_You can't be trusted as a part of this team._

"I am in a moderate amount of pain due to previous injuries. It will not affect my performance on any level." Usually, Damian would point out that Todd had given him those injuries, but blame for the incident had already been assigned. Father would not appreciate such an obvious attempt to undermine Todd's position.

"Is there anything else? Do you have a fever, or a concussion?"

"No. Besides the injuries which have already been treated, I am in perfect health." Damian knew his face was burning. Apparently, he couldn't even be trusted to do a basic diagnostic anymore.

"Why don't you take some painkillers," Father ordered. Damian's face went utterly blank. He desperately wanted to protest. He wasn't a burden, wasn't _weak,_ he didn't need drugs to be useful-

But Father had given the order. Damian managed to grind out, "Yes, Father," before slinking out of the dining room.

Even when he was trying not to be, he was worthless.

* * *

"All right, who shot the demon brat's dog because I know it wasn't me."

"Titus and Alfred the cat are fine, Jason. Do you know what happened with the painkillers? He seemed really upset."

"Scared. Pain... weakness. Medicine, weakness."

"I should have known better than to bring that up. I don't think... he realized that he could have said no."

"So make Dickhead talk to him."

"I... don't think that's a good idea. He seemed upset with me for some reason."

"Well, who else will the brat talk to?"

"..."

"Fine, but I expect to be rescued if he tries to murder me."


	2. Wayne Manor, 10:00-14:00

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why is Tim the functional sibling today? He doesn't like this. Make someone else do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wikipedia informs me that _dadas_ is Farsi for brother. Please correct me if necessary.

Damian had finished his lessons for the inane “online school” over an hour ago. The vast majority of them covered information that his tutors had pounded into his head years ago, but Damian was still required by law to prove his proficiency. Thankfully, Father had agreed that placing Damian in the same school as dozens of insipid preteens would be a poor choice, and had allowed Damian to pursue his education within the manor walls.

Which allowed Damian time to pursue his current objective.

Damian had taken to writing his notes in a number of languages, so using Russian written in Arabic characters should be safe enough. Father was fluent in both, of course, but it would be difficult to handle both at once, and it could easily be passed off as a mental exercise.

_Rules for the Wayne Household:_

  * Do not kill.
  * Do not harm other members of the household, or place them to harm each other, except during training.
  * Training only happens on the mats.
  * Father and Grayson are always to be obeyed.
  * When within the manor, Pennyworth is always to be obeyed.



Damian paused. He managed to scrawl down a few of the more inane rules, such as expected waking times and proper behavior when kidnapped as Damian Wayne, but of the important things, he only had five rules.

These were ones he already knew. There _must_ be more. If there weren’t more, Father and Grayson wouldn’t be angry with him all the time. Damian grit his teeth. What else was there?

Oh yes. Of course.

  * Be polite to the other members of the household.



That couldn’t be everything either. He had tried that this morning, and everyone had acted like Damian was about to explode. Or shatter. He had clearly overstepped some boundary, and until he determined what he had done wrong, he could not afford to be too present. The more time he spent around the others, the more likely it was that one of them would tire of his missteps and demand that he be reprimanded or worse.

A knock rang on his door. Damian immediately shuffled his notes beneath more typical arithmetic calculation sheets. “Come in.”

“Hey, Dami.” It was Timothy, leaning awkwardly on the doorframe. “How are you feeling? You seemed… upset, at breakfast.”

“I am capable of functioning optimally,” Damian said. He bit off the habitual _Drake_ at the end of the phrase. _Be polite to the other members of the household._ “I apologize if my behavior was disruptive.”

“No, no, that’s not the problem.” Timothy moved to instead lean against the bedpost, still a good ten feet from Damian’s chair. “I… you’re acting like something happened to scare you. Did… this is going to sound juvenile, but did you have a nightmare?”

Damian forced himself not to tense. How had they _known?_ Had the change in Damian’s behavior been enough to tell them? Damian could recall being scolded for his disruptive behavior several times, so if _not_ being disruptive was worrying, what was he supposed to _do?_

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Timothy said softly. “I… realize I’m kind of a hypocrite on this point, but sometimes it helps to talk about it. And I’m here. If you want to do that.” Timothy sighed, running one hand through tousled dark hair. “Or I could get Dick, if you would be more comfortable talking to him-”

Damian failed to suppress his shudder as the thought of Grayson turned his blood to ice. _You can’t be trusted as a part of this team._ He would probably slit his own throat before discussing a nightmare with Grayson.

“Ooookay,” Timothy said. “Is there something _Dick_ did to make you upset? Usually he’s your favorite.” Damian did his best not to tense as Timothy shuffled the papers on the desk so he could perch there, but he thankfully didn’t look at any of them.

“It was a reprimand,” Damian admitted. Clearly his behavior was off enough that he had to provide _some_ kind of explanation, even if the words themselves felt like they would stop up his throat and choke him. “I am… considering how best to rectify the situation.”

Timothy seemed to consider this for a moment. “I don’t know what Dick said to you, but I don’t think he’d want you to change who you _are-”_

That was _more_ than enough. Damian could have laughed, if he weren’t so very angry. “There is no need to lie to preserve my feelings, _Drake._ I am fully aware that my presence in this household is the fulfillment of an obligation, not due to any sort of familial sentiment. I am fully aware that I am _disruptive_ and _concerning_ and _destructive._ You do not need to _pretend_ that you would not prefer I were someone else. _Anyone_ else.” Damian remembered his attempt to be polite at breakfast, then realized he had probably ruined it anyway. “Just get _out,_ Drake.”

Timothy’s eyes were wide and shocked. For a moment, Damian was sorry, as Timothy had been… kind, since the second panic room incident. But no, better that he understood that _Damian_ understood the truth of the situation.

It took nearly thirty seconds for Timothy to stop staring. He set his jaw into a determined line. “I didn’t know you felt that way,” he said, like he was being careful in how he chose his words. Why would he? He knew Damian knew the truth. “I’m going to tell Dick about this, at least. He should have some idea of how badly he messed up.”

Damian would frankly rather have stuck his hand into an oven than have _Drake_ defend him to Grayson, but the thought of facing Grayson himself still made his stomach turn. “Do as you like. I have no interest in your _family dynamic,”_ he said, deliberately turning away. He clenched a fist where it would be hidden from Drake’s too-observant eyes, trying to convince himself of his own words. Timothy had been kind, and Damian had likely just ruined that, but it was better this way. Kindness would make him weak, especially when based in obligation instead of truth. Better to do without.

Damian was prepared for shouting, the slamming of the door, or even a blow. He was _not_ prepared for warm arms to wrap around him from behind.

“It’ll be okay, _dadas,”_ Timothy murmured against his ear. Damian went absolutely still. “We’ll figure this out.” He squeezed Damian just slightly, one more time, before retreating. He didn’t even slam the door behind him.

Damian fingers brushed his shoulder lightly where Timothy’s chin had rested. What the _hell_ had just happened?

* * *

Dick was working the uneven bars when Tim knocked loudly on the gym door. He made sure to make a harder dismount than usual, his arms burning from the exertion. He wanted to be tired enough that he had to _think_ before making any decisions. “So, how’d it go?”

Tim winced. “On the bright side, I don’t think he thinks we’ll make him leave?”

Dick felt a matching grimace twist his face. If _that_ was the best news Tim had… “So, what’s the bad news?”

“I got a whole speech about how him being here is because we’re obligated to take care of Bruce’s son, not because of any, quote, familial sentiment, unquote. He didn’t even seem to like _talking_ about you. Wanna explain that?”

Dick flinched like Tim had slapped him.

“Dick, what did you _do.”_

Dick sighed, leaning hard against the cool concrete of the gym wall. “It was… he’d just told me that he’d locked you and Jason in the panic room, and I was panicking, and I wanted him to _realize_ that what he’d done was wrong, but… I don’t remember what I said.”

Dick was abruptly very glad that Tim didn’t have heat vision. If he had, Dick was pretty sure he’d be a smoking crater. “You just, what, _forgot_ what it was you said that scared a preteen so bad he thought he wasn’t allowed painkillers for a _broken arm?”_

Dick buried his face in his hands. “I fucked up,” he admitted, noting Tim’s startled blink at the harsh language. “I was… I was focused on you and Jason, and I shouldn’t have been, we couldn’t _do_ anything. I should have talked to Damian then but I… didn’t.” And he’d been doing so well, getting through to Damian. Or at least he thought he had. Damian hadn’t tried to outright kill anyone in weeks, and he’d only been checking his room for traps to “test his awareness” – Ra’s, what the _hell –_ once per day that Dick knew of. He had hoped that Dick’s constant reassurance that no one would try to hurt him here, plus never _finding_ anything, had started to get through. Maybe Damian had started checking again. Dick should have thought to check on that, he _knew_ people reverted to old habits under stress and long-term punishments definitely counted as stress. “I should go talk to him.”

“Maybe check the security tapes, so you know exactly what the damage is, first,” Tim suggested. “And Dick?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re allowed to have fucked this up, you know. You were stressed, and nobody’s dead.”

Dick snorted. “Gee, thanks. I’ll take that under advisement.”

Tim was frowning at him now, concerned. “I mean it, you know. Whatever happened, we’ll work on it. It’ll get better.”

“I’m… never mind, whatever. I need to shower and go look at those security tapes. Thanks for the advice.” Dick turned to leave, but a slim hand caught his arm. “Let me _go_ , Tim, I’m gross.”

“Not until you explain what the heck is going on. I can’t handle you _and_ Damian deciding to lose it at once. What is up with you?”

“I’m _fine,_ Tim.”

“Dick, you live in a house full of detectives. Did you _actually_ think that was going to work?”

“A guy can dream, can’t he?” Dick sighed. “I don’t… I love B, but he’s not so good at the whole talking thing. _I’m_ the one who’s good at that, and I fucked it up when Damian needed me not to. I needed to make him understand that he did something _wrong,_ not, not whatever I did. I don’t even _know_ what I did. _Fuck!”_ He swung a punch at the concrete of the wall, only barely pulling it enough that he didn’t break his hand.

“Dick! _Dick!”_ Tim was suddenly tugging on his arm, eyes wide. “Dick, you’re s-” he bit off whatever he was going to say. “You’re allowed to make mistakes. You’re not his _dad,_ Dick!” He hissed out a breath. “You said yourself that you were panicking. As long as you try to fix things, you’re _okay.”_

Dick took a deep breath, trying to have faith in Tim’s words. Tim was the smart one, the detective to match Bruce. If he said this was fixable, it was. Dick could fix this. He just needed to find out what he’d done wrong. Information, plan of attack, execution. Just like any mission. He could fix this. “Can… will you watch the footage with me? In case-” In case what? In case Dick needed to be forced to watch it? In case they needed to involve Bruce or Alfred?

“Yeah.” Tim’s hand squeezed reassuringly around Dick’s wrist. “Yeah, I will.”


End file.
